Good as Gold
by Baffled Queen
Summary: 'In the end, the whole breaking and binding of Logan Walker took eleven and a half months. An impressive length of time, given the technique.' Or: I finally wrote a sequel to Shattered
They had changed tactics as soon as they'd realized that they'd been making no progress. He pushed them into it- as was his right. He'd earned his place the hard way- the honest way. It'd been a joint decision to let the kid stew for a bit while they decided what to do with him. Mostly, he'd turned his mind's eye away from the man (for a man he was, if just barely) and his naïvety. Just thinking about that staunch defense of his old friends (like things were really that black and white, like it really was that simple) had made him angry as all hell. So he'd been ecstatic when they'd finally figured out what to do with Elias' brat. And it had been a sick sort of genius. Twisted beyond the pale- beyond all mention, yes, and pretty much morally bankrupt. But genius. They'd sent him to kick it all off- the young man's new 'cell' already waiting for him.

The heavy metal door had creaked open just loud enough to startle the bag of bones that was Logan Walker. Startle was a bit of a strong word- stir would have been more appropriate. The kid's wide brown eyes had blinked open, far too large for his pale, gaunt face, and immediately sought his own in a show of irritating defiance. It was another one of those 'fuck you's that the younger had sunk his claws into- just small enough to avoid a punishment, but enough to get his blood boiling. Like his old smug silence. There was no denying Logan Walker's strength- strength of will, strength of body, any way you spun it. He'd been a ball of fire. The man's eyes had leapt to meet his, yeah. But the rage and frustration he'd once felt wasn't there, and instead it had only filled him with pity. Pity, because the boy, with his greasy blond hair, with his sunken eyes and his many scars, was still just that. Barely more then a stupid little boy who couldn't see the truth when it stared him in the face. It would have been so much kinder if Logan had just given in, just listened.

He'd hauled him up by one bony arm, cradling his thin form to his chest like a baby and easily ignoring the weak blows to his torso and shoulders. He'd rolled his eyes, using a free hand to pin the brat's wrists. Just like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "Don't," he'd grumbled in a warning tone, even as he'd stepped out of the cell for the last time and kicked the door shut behind himself. Logan hadn't taken that lying down, squirming and thrashing in a desperate attempt to get away. But Logan had been beaten, battered, and starved, while he was well-fed and well-slept. Not that that had stopped the kid- he'd writhed like a whirling dervish. In the end, it had only exhausted what little energy the boy'd had. It wasn't a very long walk to Logan's new 'cell', but he'd purposefully taken detours to confuse him. He'd passed by the guard room, by the showers, by the mess hall, before he'd looped back around and passed the guard room once again, ignoring the whimpers and cries from the other prisoners. When the young man had fallen still from exhaustion, he'd finally entered the room.

It was hardly a cell- just a normal room, with a tile floor and some boring beige walls. They'd taken a table and some chairs from it, and left it empty, and it'd finally had a purpose as Logan's cell. "Welcome to your new home, Junior," he'd said roughly, gently setting him down on the floor. The tiles had been cold where his fingers had brushed them, leaving his digits tingling. The little spitfire had immediately tried to dart for the door, despite his obvious exhaustion, earning himself a sharp kick to the ribs. Logan had tumbled to the side and landed on his back with a pained groan, and he'd sighed deeply. "I'm sorry I had to punish you, Logan, but you knew better." Compared to previous punishments, a kick and a scolding were very mild- but that had been the point. And with that, he'd stroked the wheezing boy's hair kindly once or twice before leaving, as a sort of apology. The door had clicked shut behind him, lock popped into place, the lights had gone out in the cell, and the air conditioner had kicked on. Oh yes, their plan was cruel. Effective. Necessary, even, if he'd ever wanted the young man to see what he'd seen. But cruel.

This had been their plan: leave Logan in the dark and the cold for a full day. Then turn the lights on abruptly. Some soldiers would come in to beat him, and when Logan was a bleeding, bruised mess on the floor, the lights would go out again. Give the kid a few more hours of suffering, and then _he_ would come in. The lights would be gradual this time, so as not to hurt his eyes, and the room would slowly get warmer. Then spoon feed the kid so no one gets stabbed with a kitchen utensil, and to promote things like 'dependence' and 'positive reinforcement'. He would be the sole provider of food, water, and light- the sole provider of any good thing that Logan would get. He would be the _only_ kind touch, the _only_ soft voice, the _only_ source of warmth. Repeat the procedure at least twice per day, gradually removing beatings to reward good behavior, until broken. It was cruel, maybe, but so very effective.

But in this case, he'd been glad to be, if only to save a kid's life. If only to show him the truth. To show him the good things he could have. What the truth really was. It felt wrong to punish an adolescent for being mislead, and yet... In this case, he'd felt, the end justified the means. Because if this hadn't worked, they would have been forced to put the kid down like a rabid dog. And that hadn't sat well with him.

They'd known going into the project that it would be a slow process. The little shit had resisted any and all attempts at contact from him for two days. If he'd tried to speak, the kid had screamed as long and loud as he could. If he tried to touch him, we fought and kicked. But on that third day he'd been weak, had needed food, needed _water_. If he'd wanted to live, he'd had to give in. And at last Logan had let him hand feed him. Had submitted to the hair stroking and back rubbing for the promise of a full stomach. For the security of his life. "Are you hungry, Logan?" He'd asked, watching the starved boy stir just enough to tip his chin downward in a nod. Oh, he'd been beyond pleased that day. He'd taken his sweet time feeding the kid, and despite the lank, greasy hair, he'd run his fingers through it steadily. "There we go. This is so much nicer, isn't it? Just be good for me." Logan had said nothing, choosing to contain his self-righteous indignation so the food would keep coming. In return for his hesitant obedience, the next beating had not been quite so severe.

It had only take a month to get the younger man leaning into his touches. The kid had quickly learned that allowing his back to be rubbed got him food. Perhaps more importantly, it got him food that hadn't been poisoned. A sort of Pavlovian conditioning. At first it had been an accident- a touch-starved child reacting- Logan had stiffened in an instant, before relaxing again. He'd known exactly why; the kid wanted to see what happened if he 'played along'. Or he'd wanted to get stronger to escape. He'd allowed it, and kept a closer eye on him. Let the boy play pretend until it wasn't pretending anymore. Instead of telling him off, he'd smiled. "See? That's not _so_ bad, is it?" He'd said, putting the spoon down on the plate. "No," Logan had breathed hesitantly, surprising him "I guess not." That had earned him a bath and a clean set of clothes. By the end of the third month, Logan was getting bathed every three days or so. Warm water was magical- a great incentive for good behavior.

At the end of the fifth month came the next major step, and he was pleased to see Logan crawl into his lap when he'd flopped on the floor, ready to be praised and have his hair stroked, and painfully hungry besides. He'd waited longer then usual that day, held out for an extra four hours. Waited until the young man had stopped pacing and laid down in fearful, confused silence, routine thoroughly disrupted. When he'd walked, food in hand, the kid's head had shot up, eyes flicking to the door hopefully. The moment he'd sat down, Logan had darted across the room into his lap, stomach snarling. He'd laced one arm around him tight enough that he couldn't move away, but not quite uncomfortably so, and fed him that way. With one ear pressed to his chest, mouth opening eagerly, too afraid of isolation to fuss. "You're my good boy, aren't you, Logan?" He'd asked gently, stroking a scruffy cheek with one of his thumbs. And that was the only way he'd gotten food ever after. Logan had gotten a glass of milk as a reward for good behavior, and acted like it was the greatest thing he'd ever tasted.

Another three weeks and he'd grinned when Logan had fallen asleep on him, snuggled into his chest, exhausted from a particularly nasty beating. Long, slender fingers had curled into the fabric of the neck of his t-shirt. This had been much more effective then the three silvery scars on the younger's neck had ever been. He'd wondered how he'd ever thought a man's lesson would work on a boy.

The beatings hadn't stopped, of course, though there were fewer then ever before. Logan had stayed covered in bruises and cuts: one day a swollen face, the next there'd been bruised ribs. Maybe a few broken toes, or a sprained wrist. Never anything dangerous, but enough that it'd been painful. Throughout it all, he'd kept up his spiel. "Just be the good boy I know you can be, and you won't need to be punished any more," he'd always explain kindly, watching Elias' baby's expression change over the impossibly long months, until it hadn't said 'fuck off'. Until that face had been rounded again from being well-fed, the dark rings under his eyes mostly faded, and the expression said 'How can I do that, how can I be that?' instead. And every time, he'd insinuated Logan was at fault in some way, until one day it had become "You're such a good boy now, so well behaved. I'm proud of you," and Logan had buried his pleased smile into the collar of his navy t-shirt.

Oh, during the first few weeks, the little shit had tried countless times to escape- they'd left the door unlocked, after the first three days, just to tempt him. Every time, he'd easily caught the kid, giving him the same disappointed look and cuffing him hard across the back of the head- catching his unconscious form. The furthest the brat had ever made it had been out the base's back door and onto the lawn (just a few yards from the jungle), where he was promptly caught and slung over his shoulder while he fought and screamed like a trapped animal. That had been the joke around the mess for a solid month, though they'd called him a child and not an animal. The worst he'd ever done, the boy had opened to door right before he had, his left hand had hovered just over the doorknob. Logan's face had gone red with shame as he'd bumped into his chest, and then he'd quietly backed up into the room and shut the door once more. He'd never laughed so hard in his life. In fact, he'd been so amused that Logan hadn't even been punished. His pink cheeks had been enough.

Logan had been relentless, his silence broken at last. In that first hellish month, Logan'd talked enough shit that he'd been beaten so bad he needed a cast for the broken arm. He'd been clubbed in the head with it the next time the kid had tried to escape. The younger man had been dragged back screaming and writhing, and, because he hadn't been allowed to beat Logan, spanked like a naughty child until he'd howled. And then he'd been made to apologize. The point had not been pain, it had been debasement- Logan was not in control. Once Junior was suitably chastised and humiliated, he'd thrown out a "I'm very disappointed in you, Logan," and not gone back for three straight days. Had just let the soldiers throw mildly poisoned food in for Logan to scoop off of the floor with his hands in the pitch blackness. When he'd gone back on the fourth day, the kid had clung to him and shook for an hour solid while he got his spoon feeding. "You won't do that again, I know," he'd murmured "you're awfully sorry for being bad." And that was that. Logan had not tried to _attack_ anyone else after that, too afraid of being left alone in the dark and the cold. That didn't stop the escape attempts, in fact it made Logan try even harder. He'd actually nearly escaped- the grunts had broken his feet for punishment. A bit extreme, maybe, but effective.

But that had been months and months ago. Almost a year. The whole breaking and binding of Logan Walker took eleven and a half months. An impressive length of time, given the technique.

Now, Logan was ecstatic to see him walk through the door. Now, Logan was allowed to feed himself (though he sometimes refused to do it, because he wanted attention). Now, Logan was sleeping in his bedroom, soft blond curls drooping down over his eyes. He knew the kid needed a haircut, but he also knew that he had a tendancy to attack anyone who tried to touch him without Logan's or his express permission. So it was probably up to him to do it, and he rather liked the curls. They made him look harmless. He let his eyes drift over the sleeping young man, and smirked. Today he'd come back to find all of his knives on the kitchen counter, clean and sharpened. Yesterday Logan had done his 'first' round of training, and beamed when he'd praised him- it was all the kid wanted, all that he craved. Logan was entirely dependant on his praise, like an addict on their drug of choice.

Yeah, Logan was obedient to a fault. If he gave the kid so much as an offhanded request, he'd be chomping at the bit to run and do it. He knew the kid would do anything he told him to, and gladly. Logan already called him 'Sir', but that was getting kind of old now that the novelty had worn off. He'd been toying around with other titles, and he thought he had a good one; 'Papa' should piss the kid's brother off pretty nicely, when he caught wind of it.

On a passing whim, he reached out and let his fingers slide through Logan's curls, reveling in the way the kid tried to worm ever closer to him. Slim fingers latched onto him and he reclined on the mattress, allowing the kid to nuzzle into his side. Just perfect. "Good boy, Logan."

Rorke didn't know what the plan was now; whether Logan was going to help him hunt the Ghosts (preferable), or just stay out of the game now that he was no longer a threat, or even if they planned to ship him back to his brother, broken and crying for him.

But whatever happened next, he wasn't worried, because Logan had become good as gold.

* * *

Well there you go. The literal successor to 'Shattered' as opposed to the spiritual successor. That you've all been waiting like 2 years for. I have conflicted feelings about my work, here, but since you're seeing it, it's gone up anyway.

Rorke's crazy as hell, okay. He genuinely believes that all of this has helped Logan, somehow. Logan has been conditioned to obey Rorke, and Rorke alone- unless Rorke says otherwise, of course, which he wouldn't. It was all pretty straight forward. Rewards for 'good' behavior, harsh punishments for 'bad'. There isn't really a way for him to come back from this, so don't expect a threequel...

Maybe i'll write a piece about Hesh finding Logan after everything. Or maybe about Logan encountering his brother. I dunno though, so don't count on it. You, however, are free to write it yourselves.

If you like it, let me know. If you don't, let me know.


End file.
